


better off without me.

by LovelyVerisimilitude



Series: mellifluous. [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Attempt at Humor, F/M, Florist!Percy, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Romance, Swearing, Tattooist!Rachel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyVerisimilitude/pseuds/LovelyVerisimilitude
Summary: “You’re a lot more attractive up close,” she blurts out. Quickly. Stupidly. “You just need to lose the weird posture."Percy scoffs. “My posture is perfect!”“Keep telling yourself that, Mr. Scoliosis.”(TATTOOIST & FLORIST AU— Rachel has never had a friend before. That is, until the new flower shop opens.)
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Rachel Elizabeth Dare/Percy Jackson
Series: mellifluous. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795933
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58





	better off without me.

**Author's Note:**

> i. beta read by [Floretfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Floretfall/pseuds/Floretfall).

Rachel likes to read.

She likes to flip the page, feel the texture of the paper, the coarseness of the grainy memoir, the glossiness of the flimsy, colorful article. Goggles at the fonts, small, black letters with curving lines or big, red letters with sharp edges. The familiar woosh noise it makes when she moves on to another page. The feeling of tranquility, of utter peace when she reads.

So no, Rachel wouldn't say she likes to read, exactly. She likes the aesthetic. Rachel practices this hobby every morning at the tattoo parlor, sprawled across a sofa in the lounge area with a cup of green tea sitting on her knee. She arrives early before the parlor opens. Sleep-deprived from watching YouTube all night, but early. Light pools in from underneath the bleak gray roller shades. The framed analog clock hanging on the wall ticks unhurriedly, as if time has momentarily slowed just for her to relax.

She skims the magazine in her hand, reading about the latest celebrity gossip, ten facts she doesn't know are signs of cancer, and a boring Trump article she doesn't even bother to pay attention to.

It’s a rather lovely, sublime morning until her boss stalks in. The slam of the front door shakes the furniture and Thalia enters with a hobo bag thrown over one shoulder.

"Morning," Thalia says tersely, dropping her stuff on an ottoman and sitting across from Rachel.

"Where have _you_ been?" Rachel asks nonchalantly, noticing the time. “You’re usually earlier than me.”

Thalia's reply is fierce and defensive, holding her ground. "I've been out." Thalia checks her watch and scoffs. "Where the fuck is everyone? Parlor's about to open in twenty minutes and I need tattooists! Do I pay them for not being here?"

"It's just twenty minutes," Rachel says with a shrug.

"I live on the far side of the city. If I can make it here twenty minutes early, so can they."

Rachel shrugs again.

Thalia isn't a bad boss. She's efficient. Talkative. Bold. Maybe _too_ bold. She reminds Rachel of her old gym coach. The man carried around a megaphone both day and night, using it to deafen his athletes' ears and crush their spirits. Thalia’s something like that. Thunderous, terrifying, and bossy to the point of tyranny when she didn't get her way. It's one of the reasons why Rachel arrives early.

She continues to browse the pages for anything compelling while Thalia rants about how she hates her coffee, her life, and her dad— _”He's worried about this job," Thalia says. "I've owned this parlor for over three years, and he still thinks I can't handle being a fucking adult"_ —when a tiny article in the left hand corner catches her eye. It's an advertisement, a miniature box of flaxen yellow with neat, black calligraphy and an elegant white border.

"A new business opened a few days ago," Rachel interrupts, squinting firmly at the magazine.

"Really?" Thalia peers down at the magazine with interest. " _Please_ tell me it's not a bar. I don't need anymore drunken customers asking for a tattoo of their ex on their dick." She shudders from the memory.

"The place is called Euphoria," Rachel reads aloud while examining the ad. "It's right next door, where that stupid dance studio used to be."

Thalia's elbows lean forward to get a closer look. "Are you sure—wait—oh my fuck, it's a motherfucking _flower shop_?"

She’s right. Above the text is a bouquet of pale pink tulips sitting in the back pocket of someone’s light wash denims. It’s a charming advertisement, the kind of photography Rachel would admire while scrolling through Pinterest. And even though Thalia looks like she’s going to retch, Rachel _likes_ it.

She likes the aesthetic.

Maybe this flower shop is worth checking out.

# 

* * *

The new flower shop is a _devil_ , but from _heaven_.

It’s the kind of thing Rachel would curse and glorify, the kind of thing she doesn't know is good or evil or just plain fucked up.

Throughout the first week, it appears to be pretty ordinary. Cute yellow-painted sign at the front with artificial daisies adorning the edges, glass paned windows with a selection of intricately placed blossoms in clay terracotta pots on the sills. Just an everyday flower shop.

The real devils are the _florists_. During the morning, there are multiple instances where Rachel would hear the shattering crash of a glazed ceramic pot, followed by threats and curses and insults. According to Piper, afternoon hours were worse. One time Thalia had to march over there because a sudden broom thumped against their window.

It’s interesting.

She’s... _curious_. Perplexed. Intrigued. 

And that’s why she’s pushing past Euphoria’s doors after work hours.

The shop is small, tightly compact with blossoms of all shapes, sizes, and colors. They’re _everywhere_. On tables, counters, in planters dangling from the ceiling, and even in a stray coffee mug.

 _These florists sure love flowers_ , she thinks as she picks up a chestnut-colored pot on display. _I don't even love tattoos this much_.

Rachel strolls through the forest of flowers, her feet working in a daze, fascinated by the place. It’s like she entered one of those fairytale forests, where mythical creatures hid beneath the shrubberies and hedges. She traces her hands over the soft leaves, the bristly stems, almost dancing through the rows, light and weightless, like a ballerina on stage, twirling and spinning and—

And then she turns around and she’s about to get fucking _bitch-slapped_ by forty baskets of Peruvian lilies.

Rachel stumbles and hits her back against the shelves, pots trembling by her weight. She throws her hands in the air to seize the falling pile, then shrieks when she realizes the flowers have _eyes_.

 _Huge_ eyes, the color of a clear, green lagoon on an early morning day. And then the flowers have a straight nose and a mouth and—and— _and_ —

It's not from the flowers.

It's a _face_.

"Holy shit!" the face yells, backtracking three steps away from her, lilies bobbing. He impressively regains his balance, but continues to make incoherent, distraught noises.

" _Sorry_!" Rachel apologizes, hands waving around frantically. "I am _so_ sorry, I didn’t hear—I wasn't—are you—I'm sorry, did I scare you?"

"What? _Scare me_?" the tower of lilies asks and laughs nervously. "Of course not! I'm in tip-top shape! I just, uh—" he stumbles, left then right "—a little off-balanced. Can you—uh, I mean, only if you're willing to, I'm not gonna force you or anything—can you show me where the cashier is? I mean like, the counter? These flowers—they're sort of—I can't—I can’t really _see_ —"

"Here, let me help you." Rachel carries the other side of the baskets, her head thrown over her shoulder to watch her steps as they maneuver their way past the rows towards the back of the shop.

It takes her a while to actually distinguish the bronze, old-fashioned cash register. It's perched on top of a heap of dictionaries and encyclopedias stacked on top of a wooden coffee table. It's peculiar. It's kooky. It's strange. They deposit the baskets behind the so-called ‘counter.’ Rachel straightens her back and inspects the florist who so generously bumped into her.

He's her age. He's taller than her by half a foot. His hair looks soft enough to touch. She can't stop gawking at his sharp jawline, the little tug at the corner of his lips. He's dark-haired and tan and has that troublemaker smile that makes her wonder what kind of chaos he could ensue. He's in a long Led Zeppelin shirt, khaki shorts, and an apron with dandelions in the pockets, sprouting like young blossoms in spring. And—

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He's _cute_.

"Sorry about that," he says, clapping his hands together to wipe off imaginary dust and flint. His eyes study her for a moment. "Hey, don't you work next door? Eternity's Tattoos or something?"

Rachel blinks. "How do you know that?"

There's nothing on her that screams she works at a tattoo parlor. Her skin is absolutely spotless; the only tattoos she has are her red-brown freckles. She's not in the typical uniform (not that they have one; Thalia doesn’t believe in uniforms) and she doesn't sport the nametag or tattoo needle logo. There's nothing.

He flushes, cheeks pink and eyes darting away from her face. "I, uh, well, I see you—like, I see you in the morning when you go work. You always pass by the windows and kind of—well, you sort of stare at the windows for a really long time and then you just leave to go into the parlor. Do you—were you thinking about coming in? I've always wanted to ask, but—uh, I was—"

"Sometimes," Rachel admits, surveying him as he twiddles his thumbs. "I don't come in, though. My boss will definitely yell at me if I'm not at least half an hour early. She'd throw me out a window and bury me alive if it wasn't illegal." She stuffs her hands in her pockets, gazing past the window to glimpse into the parlor. "But that's just Thalia for you."

He snorts, a kind of sound that originates mostly from his throat than his nose. "My boss seems like the exact opposite of yours. Calypso always buys us strawberry pastries from the bakery downtown." He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Shit, I didn't ask before, but do you want any flowers? No, wait, obviously you do, why else would you—"

"I came in to have a look around, actually.” Rachel puts her hands on her hips, fixing her eyes upon the forest of delicate blossoms. “Just to get to know what this place has to offer."

He observes her. Rubs a thumb over his chin. "Do you...do you like it?”

Rachel lets out a half-laugh, something in between a chuckle and a scoff. "Are you _kidding_?” Her voice is blaring, like a slap to the face, harsh at the end of the question. It makes him jump. “I _love_ it! It's charming. Kind of old-fashioned and antique—a bit crowded here and there—and yeah, your counter is a bit hidden and kind of all over the place—but it’s—it’s, well—” Rachel grins at him. “I think it’s perfect.”

He has the same grin on his face. It makes him look more of an angel than a devil. "Thanks. I didn’t pick it out—I'm horrible at interior design—but Calypso and my other friend are freaks about it. One is crazy about furniture and the other is crazy about architecture. They did this.” His eyes slide over to the book-made counter. “And, ah, we needed to... _improvise_ on some things, but it’s nice to know you think it’s cool. Thanks for browsing, by the way—even if I did hurl you with flowers.”

“Yeah, you _did_ almost kill me.”

He chuckles at the comparison.

Rachel strokes one of the long, heart-shaped petals. They’re neon coral with inner tangerine petals and zebra-like stripes. "They're beautiful, you know. I never really thought that someone would buy a flower shop next to a tattoo parlor. You guys did wonders to this place, by the way—maybe I should get your boss’s number—but I always thought this abandoned shop was always going to be, well, _abandoned_ , you know? Wish I could come by during work hours since you’re right next door, but I’ll be thrown into next week if I even take a step outside the parlor."

He takes a step towards her. Rethinks. Takes a step back. "You're welcome to just come over and sketch. Tattooists do that, right? Look at references and draw them?"

She studies him, as if seeking a lie in his fiddling thumbs or his sharp jaw.

He’s apprehensive.

Jittery.

A bit timid.

She figures she likes it.

Rachel brings her hand out. "I'd like that. Rachel Elizabeth Dare. Sorry for scaring you."

He shakes it. "Percy Jackson. Sorry for— _almost_ —killing you."

# 

* * *

The next day, she shows up and regards that there’s a novel addition to the flower shop. It’s a table by the windows, this one composed of two coffee tables assembled on top of one another, a few rusty books, and a random paper cup balancing a flat, wooden board. There’s a vase on top of the table with neon Peruvian lilies in it.

Rachel walks towards it. Hesitantly. Gently. Then picks up a letter with scrawled handwriting on it. The letters are round, the spacing in between the capital and lowercase letters nonexistent.

 _Reserved for RED_ , she reads silently. _Don’t bump into them again. From Percy Jackson_.

She sets it down. 

Flips it.

Flips it again.

And then she smiles.

# 

* * *

“Did something happen?” Thalia questions when Rachel arrives at Eternity’s Tattoos five minutes early, which is to say, _late_. She hears Rachel hum. “Are you... _singing_?”

Rachel doesn't tell her that she’s been dreaming about sea-green eyes all night.

# 

* * *

She keeps coming back.

Everyday after she’s packing up her things at the parlor, she strides into the shop next door, sits down at the book-made table by the windows, and draws. She doesn’t even need to hunt for references; there’s always some type of flower in that blue vase. It’s not always the same flower and there’s not always a letter. When Percy’s on his shift, he takes a seat and chats about the store or comments on her sketches. She appreciates his company, his rambles, that weird rocking back and forth thing he does with his feet.

Sometimes he’s not there. Instead, it’s a woman with a caramel braid thrown across her shoulder or a blond guy with a long, wicked scar across his face or, most often, a guy with a long goatee who wears tie-dye shirts and baggy slacks.

“Oh, those are the other people who work here,” Percy tells her one day when she asks him about them. “Calypso’s got us spread out throughout the week. She says it’s just until she gets another employee, but I’m pretty sure it’s because she’s sick of us dropping pots everywhere when we’re trying to play hide and seek.”

Rachel doesn't think he’s kidding.

He cranes his neck to take a peek at her latest sketch, hands planted on the desk. “ _Wow_ ,” he murmurs, extending out his hand to flip through the endless pages of dried watercolor and inked pen. “You’re a really great artist.” His fingers graze a blue, watercolor blossom, removes them, and then stands up.

“You learn a thing or two when you’re working at a tattoo parlor.” She carries on pressing her pencil to the paper. “Thalia—my boss—taught me how to hold a tattoo needle properly and everything. I draw a lot, even outside of work. It helps calm my nerves.” Rachel scans the drawing, then her reference. She nudges the sketchbook his direction, sitting back and crossing her arms over her abdomen. “How does that look?”

Percy shifts, peering down at the sketchbook. He smells similar to the ocean. Salty. Fresh. As if summer has a scent. “It’s amazing.” He shoots her a smile. “Can you draw me?”

Rachel barks out a laugh. “Can I _what_?”

“Can you draw me?” he repeats, solid and genuine this time. “I make a _perfect_ muse.”

Rachel doesn't expect herself to agree, but she does.

She beckons him to sit on the chair across from her. Picks up her pencil. Starts sketching the face’s guidelines.

It’s not as awkward as the other times she’s drawn for people. Percy makes small talk to fill the silence as she analyzes his features, from the way his hair is swept back to the crinkle underneath his brow when he laughs, hoping he can’t catch her blush when she stares at his eyes a second too long.

And it’s oddly... _comfortable_. She hasn’t felt this way about anyone before. She’s never had someone so close to her—and it’s weird because all she’s ever done with Percy is sketch and chat about his flower shop and complain about co-workers—but it’s the truth. It’s the truth. She doesn't know what to do about it.

When she’s done, Rachel holds the drawing next to his face, darting her gaze back and forth. She hands him the sketchbook. “I think I drew you pretty well.”

“It looks...it looks almost exactly like me,” he notes in disbelief, a nimble finger tracing the line of his face. “Wow, that’s—that’s cool. Yeah, that’s cool. You even got that mole at the side of my cheek.” Percy looks up, the corners of his mouth quirked. “Did you make me more _pretty_?”

“You’re a lot more attractive up close,” she blurts out. Quickly. Stupidly. “You just need to lose the weird posture.”

Percy scoffs. “My posture is perfect!”

“Keep telling yourself that, Mr. Scoliosis.”

He chokes out a laugh, crinkling his brow again, and somehow, it sends Rachel’s heart racing.

And she doesn’t know _why_.

# 

* * *

“Who’s that?”

Rachel slams her sketchbook shut and whirls around to find another tattooist, Nico, standing behind her. He's silent, walks like a ghost, only eats takeout, and she's not very fond of him.

"Nobody," she says, hugging the drawing of Percy close to her heart.

Nico stares at her flatly, his eyeballs like tiny hellholes. "Your lunch break was over five minutes ago."

Then he leaves her be.

Rachel sighs a breath of relief.

# 

* * *

“Do you have any friends?”

Rachel stills, alarmed by the question.

Percy blushes. “Sorry, that sounded better in my head. Do you have any friends that you hang out with? Like, in the real world? Wait, no, or like—”

“I guess not,” Rachel admits, fumbling with her pen. “I mean, I have the parlor. There’s Thalia—we don’t talk much—Piper—we don’t talk much either—and Nico—but he scares me. I never bothered with friends. Not since Clarion Academy. It’s an all-girls private school,” she adds when he furrows his eyebrows. “So, yeah, not really.” She tilts her head. “How about you? Do you have any friends or are you a sad loner, too?”

“Kind of,” Percy says, gaze low. “Like—there’s Grover. I think he’s a fun guy. He actually recommended me to Calypso, so, uh, he was the one that got me hired. There’s also Luke, I guess, but we just argue all day.” His grin widens. “Oh! And my best friend. She’s the girl that likes architecture. The one who made these.” He gestures to the table. “And I...I guess I have you, I suppose.”

Rachel hopes he can’t see the blood rushing to her ears.

# 

* * *

“Hey, um, are you...are you Red? Rachel Elizabeth Dare?”

She looks up from her drawing and is surprised to see the goatee man in front of her, clutching a letter with Percy’s scrawling on it.

“Yeah, why?”

“No reason. I just, uh—” he sputters, panicking and creating wavy hand movements. It sort of reminds her of herself. “I—uh—just—” he thrusts out one arm. “Here. My friend—Percy—wanted you to have this. He’s out sick today and...and I think you were planning on seeing him?”

Rachel reaches for the letter. “Thanks. And you are..?”

“Oh, I’m Grover. I’m one of Percy’s friends,” he says. Rachel internally knocks on her head, remembering when Percy mentioned him. He watches her carefully as she sets the letter down by the vase. “Hey, look, I see you come in every day and...well, Percy mentioned...are you guys..?” Grover points his finger in a circle.

“What?” Rachel squeaks, realizing what he’s trying to insinuate. “Oh, Percy and I? No! No, of course—of course not!” She chews on her lip. “Hey, do you know if...if he’s _seeing_ anyone? Percy, I mean?”

Grover casts his eyes away from her face and drawls out, “Uhhhhhh....”

He walks away as soon as a customer enters before Rachel could ask him again.

# 

* * *

_For RED._

_Sorry I couldn't be there. I'm sick, but it's nothing I can't handle. I was planning on bringing my friend over, but I guess that's going to wait until Friday. I bet she'd like you. Keep working hard on those drawings!_

_From Percy Jackson._

# 

* * *

Her name is Annabeth.

Percy’s best friend’s name is _Annabeth_.

He mentions her sometimes, telling Rachel about how she’s passionate about architecture or how she learns curses in foreign languages to fuck with him, but she doesn’t really _care_ about Annabeth until she _sees_ her.

She’s wearing distressed denim shorts that hang above her knees and a jacket with fake gems studded along the shoulder blades. Annabeth’s taller than her with lithe, tan legs, a curly blonde ponytail, and dark gray eyes that Rachel thinks are glaring daggers at her. It’s not until she’s next to Annabeth that she’s aware of her tea stained shirt or the chipping paint on her jeans or the holes in her shoes.

Percy's standing beside her, clutching a bag of blueberry muffins in one hand, acting like there’s absolutely nothing wrong with introducing two female friends who obviously, _painfully_ , both have crushes on him. Absolutely _nothing_ wrong.

" _You're_ the girl Percy bumped into?" Annabeth asks, more accusational than inquiring. Her lips tightly pull together as she inspects her, her body leaning towards Percy.

"That's me," Rachel says with a grin because _what else_ is she supposed to do when this—this—this _bitch_ with her piercing glare and intimidating features is judging her? It makes her feel small. Quiet. Like she’s back at that all-girls private academy, being laughed at behind whispers and covered hands and pointing fingers and—and— _and_ —

"You’re going to choke on them!” Annabeth hisses at Percy as he gulps down another crumbly morsel.

Percy starts to say something, the words muffled by the muffin. He swallows it and starts over. “At least I’ll die doing something I love.”

Annabeth scoffs. “Eating? Choking?”

“Dying,” he corrects, eating another one of the baked goods. Percy earns another aghast reply from Annabeth, but Rachel doesn’t hear it.

She’s been subtly pushed away from the conversation, unusually soundless as they bicker and talk, as if she’s watching a play from the seats. Percy’s _different_ with Annabeth—his timid personality vanishes, replaced by that troublemaker smile and mischievous twinkle in his eyes. His posture is laid back, his shoulders not so tense.

Their light words and teasing expressions make her wonder—make her _realize_ —that maybe this Annabeth girl is more important than Percy lets on. And it didn’t hit Rachel until then that maybe she’s just been _blind_. She thinks back to whenever Percy talks about her. Rachel remembers how his grin revealed the whites of his teeth, how he could gush about Annabeth for a mile a minute.

It all comes crashing down on her like an ocean wave, like a _tsunami_ , and it’s fucking stupid because she’s not even cold, not even wet, but she feels, she _feels_ —

She realizes.

She _realizes_.

After their little argument, it seems to occur to Percy that they’ve left her behind. His smile falters a bit, looking at her, then Annabeth, but he doesn’t have anything to say.

"Percy and I should get going," Annabeth says, checking her watch. "We need to pick up Estelle from school."

“Right.” Percy gives her a nod. He turns to Rachel. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“What?” It takes her a second to respond. “Oh, yeah, totally!”

He smiles. She smiles. Annabeth stares.

# 

* * *

She still comes back.

She doesn’t need anyone’s permission to see Percy, least of all Anna _bitch_. She sees him in the mornings, after work hours, takes peeks inside the flower shop, wondering if she’ll get a glimpse of him. She’s suddenly aware that there are such things as other women, other women who probably connect with him far more than he connects with her. Other women like Annabeth.

But when she does come back, so does Annabeth, like she’s watching her every fucking move, like she’s telling her to back off, but Rachel’s never one to follow anybody’s orders.

And Percy is so _fucking_ oblivious.

 _Maybe not that oblivious_ , Rachel thinks when he catches Annabeth glaring at her and presses his mouth in a thin line. _But still stupid_.

But _Rachel’s_ not stupid.

She sees Percy walk to the flower shop with her, long-limbed hands in his pockets. She sees Annabeth having that grin on her face, the kind that every high school girl has when she’s so, so in love. She feels like she's watching one of those cheesy, teenage romance movies she used to cry over. Their shoulders are touching, so close that if Percy leans a bit lower, they could be kissing. They’re so obvious that it’s hard to believe they _aren’t_ a couple.

And it’s crazy because Rachel can _see_ it.

Annabeth can see it.

Even Grover can see it.

The entire world can see it.

But Percy _can’t_.

# 

* * *

She tosses and turns in her bed.

Thinking.

Wondering.

Denying.

# 

* * *

“Are you guys dating?”

Percy’s grip on the pot falters, making it slip out of his grasp. The pot dances on his fingers as he tries to grasp hold of it again, but it topples down anyway, shattering across the floor.

“Shit!” Percy hisses at the same time Grover fumbles with his own pot, but unlike Percy, he catches it.

From the back room, Rachel hears Calypso yell, "No cussing in front of the customers!"

Percy visibly winces. Then, he turns to Rachel, cheeks dusted pink. "Annabeth and I aren't dating. We're just friends. That's all."

"Oh," Rachel says. She drops the subject. Pestering Percy about it wouldn't help her know if he has a crush on her or not. She has all the evidence she needs.

She never asked if it was Annabeth he was dating.

# 

* * *

She tosses and turns in her bed.

Denying.

Wondering.

Thinking.

# 

* * *

_Accepting_.

# 

* * *

“You can have him, you know,” Rachel bluntly tells her the next time she sees her. Percy had scurried off to help Grover restock the storage room. Her sketchbook is abandoned on the table, and her hands feel empty without it.

Annabeth jerks her head around violently. “What?”

Rachel swallows. Wets her lips. “You can have him," she repeats, because it's true. She's made up her mind. "You can have Percy. I’m not—" she pauses. "I’m not another obstacle.”

Annabeth sputters. “What are you—I don’t—Percy and I—”

“I see the way you look at him. I’m not blind, believe it or not. And…" Rachel rubs her arms. "I see the way he looks at you, too.”

Annabeth flushes, her eyebrows creasing. For a moment, she stares at her, like Rachel's some sort of puzzle she solved. Like she doesn’t even know _how_ she solved it. “Why are you telling me this?" Annabeth asks finally. "I thought you liked him and wanted to...go out with him. Or whatever.”

Rachel hesitates. Is that what she wants? To hold hands with him, to laugh at his crappy jokes, to go on little cafe dates with someone as bright and happy and quick-witted as Percy? To do everything he and Annabeth basically do on an everyday basis?

 _But I’m not her_ , she reminds herself. _I'm not Annabeth_.

“I did. I have to admit, I had a crush on him.” She laughs. “A _really_ big crush on him. But...it’s over now." She catches Annabeth's disbelieving frown and sighs. "Look, I care about him. It’s only been around a month, but I care about him a lot. He's…well, he's the only friend I've got. And I get that you have feelings for him, too.”

Annabeth shifts her feet, gaze darting towards the storage room. Percy and Grover are still arguing over where they should put the petunias. “How did you know?”

The absurdity of the question is so bizarre, Rachel had to laugh. “Are you _kidding_? How could I _not_?" She leans on one of the shelves. "I know you hate me, but—”

“I don’t hate you," Annabeth says quickly. Suddenly. Abruptly. "I’ve never hated you. Why do you think that?”

“What?" Rachel asks, the words defying her standard knowledge of everything she ever knew about Annabeth Whatshername. "But I just—I—I thought—then—wait." Rachel blinks. "What?"

“I’ve never hated you,” she repeats. “I’m not…not—" Annabeth waves her hand vaguely "—the _kindest_ when Percy introduces me to his new friends. He’s the only friend I have—no, the only friend I _trust_. I don't—I guess—I don’t really warm up to people like I used to." Her eyes drift away, staring off into space, like living in a memory she couldn't quite reach. Then she takes a deep breath. "But...thanks for telling me. That I can have him. Even if I have no idea how.”

“Hey, you’re his best friend.” Rachel shoves her hands inside her pockets. “You’ll figure it out.”

Annabeth considers her with those dark gray eyes. She nods. Slightly dips her chin down. “You know,” she says slowly, “Percy doesn’t need to be your _only_ friend.”

Rachel stares.

Annabeth smiles.

# 

* * *

She doesn’t come back anymore. Doesn’t come inside. Doesn’t draw. Doesn’t joke about Percy’s posture. When her shift is over, she grabs her bag, yells goodbye to her co-workers, hears them yell back, exits, and then—then—then—

And then she stops.

She stops right in front of that flower shop, with its crowded windows and delicate sign reading Euphoria. The place has grown since the dusty, abandoned dance studio that was once there. 

She feels like she’s grown, too.

The warm sunlight gives it a heavenly glow. Otherworldly. Absurd. Safe. Two weeks since she’s been here, and yet she still misses it. Misses the scent of earth. Misses the wacky tables. Misses Percy. But she doesn’t dare step in, doesn’t dare make herself _known_.

She gets a glimpse of him sitting at the table, in his usual seat, except now, Annabeth’s with him. Annabeth avoids looking at him, playing with a curl of her blonde hair. Percy’s profile—his perfect profile, the one that Rachel used to love drawing—stares at her in awe, as if he’s never seen anybody like her. Anybody like Annabeth. They talk, the sound muffled through the window, grins stretching at odd angles, the way they always did when they couldn’t contain their happiness.

Rachel expects it to crush her. She expects burning anger inside her veins, a knot tying itself inside her stomach, a stab in her gut, at least some sort of jealousy or envy or malice or _something_.

But all she finds is emptiness.

An old, dry wound.

She hears Grover shout something in the back and Annabeth stands to check on him. Rachel starts to move her feet, but then stops again.

Percy stares at her, round sea-green eyes with a mole on the side of his cheek. It’s like he could already tell she was watching the entire time.

Her heart skips a beat on impulse. His gaze is welcoming. Beckoning. Expecting. Wanting her to come inside. The worst part is, Rachel was about to. She wants to march in, sit in Annabeth’s place, maybe hog all his attention for herself. She wants _him_ for herself.

But she doesn’t do it.

She doesn’t.

She _can’t_.

Instead, Rachel half-heartedly waves.

Percy waves back. Takes one last look at her. Examines her. Studies her. Turns away.

It’s something like understanding.

She forces herself to move on and leave him behind. Walks with one foot in front of the other. Left, right. Right, left. Time slows, waiting for her to catch her breath. Waiting for her to relax. With every stride, she’s moving on.

It feels reluctant. Steady. Gradual. Sluggish.

But it’s all she can do.

It’s the _best_ she can do.

It’s the first step to healing.

**Author's Note:**

> i. i swear i ship percabeth.
> 
> ii. first work on here! i really enjoyed writing about rachel and this weird flower shop au idea i had.
> 
> iii. feel free to request ships and prompts! i'm open for some ideas for my next fic.
> 
> [tumblr](https://lovely-verisimilitude.tumblr.com/)


End file.
